A Pound of Flesh

Chapter 30





Red Square, some local folk had dubbed it, due to the red asphalt surface that had replaced the former tarmacadam and flower beds of the city’s central square. The city fathers had deemed it an improvement but Lorimer was one of many who dismissed that notion, remembering springtime outings as a boy when he had crossed the square and his senses had been assaulted by masses of pink, white and blue hyacinths wafting their heady perfume from the many raised flowerbeds dotted around the place. There was no such olfactory welcome tonight, just the leftover smell of home-made soup from the all-night van that served the down-andouts who came shuffling along for what might be their only decent meal of the day. Glasgow might have its fair share of social problems like homelessness and prostitution, Lorimer thought as he parked his car at the edge of the square, but at least there were those good folk who were willing to give up their time to help them. The thought made him feel at once guilty when he remembered his unwillingness to leave the warmth of his own home and somehow glad that he had come.

The street lights illumined the grand buildings on all four sides: the old Post Office that was still under renovation; the Millennium Hotel opposite, the Merchant’s House and of course the graceful Victorian façade of the City Chambers that dominated the whole square. Lorimer walked past the recumbent stone lions guarding the cenotaph and headed towards the Big Blue Bus whose interior lights showed that it was ready and waiting for its nightly passengers.

‘Superintendent Lorimer? Richard Allan. Pleased to meet you.’ The man with the beaming smile and outstretched hand was suddenly there as Lorimer approached the double decker bus sitting right outside the City Chambers. The Reverend Richard Allan was, like Lorimer himself, devoid of the usual signs of rank or status. No dog collar peeped from under that stripy scarf, nor, at first glance, was there anything other than the man’s bright countenance to show his Christian affiliation. However Lorimer did notice the tiny silver lapel badge in the shape of a dove – a visible reminder of the man’s faith. Allan, like so many other men of the cloth, had put his burning desire to do something for the poorer elements of society into practice. Lorimer remembered reading an article about the pastor when the project had taken off; how he had pestered the owners of bus companies into letting his organisation have the vehicle they needed and how the women had gradually responded to the facilities offered aboard the bus. Not only that, but there was something else, something Lorimer wanted to ask the man right away.

‘Didn’t I read that you’d had some success in helping the girls to come off drugs?’ he asked as Allan ushered him on board.

‘That’s quite correct,’ the pastor replied. ‘There have been a few, sadly just a very few, who have managed to kick their habits, both drugs and prostitution. Still, one lost lamb and all that. The volunteers here do a marvellous job, though. There’s always someone to listen to the women and give them advice about anything at all. Quite a number of them have served prison sentences and that can have a terrible effect on their self-esteem. That’s one of our biggest challenges, you know,’ he continued. ‘Trying to let them know that nobody is worthless.’

Lorimer made a non-committal noise in reply. He’d like to have told this kindly soul just how bad it really was when even some of Strathclyde’s finest regarded these women as less than human and undeserving of police time.

‘DCI James,’ he began.

‘Ah, Helen, she’s a wonderful lady,’ Allan enthused. ‘Knows just how to speak to the women. They like her, you know. Trust her, too. So, when I introduce you to them I’ll say that you’re a friend of hers, shall I?’

‘That’s a good idea, but I will probably have to tell them the reason I’m here,’ Lorimer reminded him.

‘Ah, yes.’ Allan frowned suddenly, his face clouding for a moment. ‘Of course. Terrible business. We used to see Tracey-Anne on a regular basis. Poor little thing.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Doesn’t bear thinking about.’

‘Reverend—’

‘Richard, please,’ the pastor interrupted with a smile.

‘Richard, one of the things I want to ask the women who board the bus is if they have ever seen a white Mercedes sports car cruising around the drag.’

‘Ah,’ Allan replied. ‘I read about that. Edward Pattison and these other men.’ He looked intently at Lorimer. ‘Do you have suspicions that they had been consorting with the Glasgow women, then?’

Lorimer nodded and was met with an understanding look. The Revd Richard Allan could be trusted with this intelligence. For all his spirituality there was something to this man that Lorimer liked; a sense that he was with a man whose keen intellect was matched by a burning zeal to use his time and talents to make the lives of other folk a little better. And right now that included helping Strathclyde Police with their investigations.

‘Oh, here’s Doreen,’ Allan said suddenly, looking across the square at a couple of women who were approaching the bus.

Lorimer followed his gaze toward the two figures. Despite the chilly night, one of them wore a short red coat and was teetering along on high-heeled boots. The other, dressed in a long black coat, a camel scarf covering her hair, was looking around her as though this was something of a novelty. Lorimer was standing a little behind Richard Allan who waved them on board with a welcome, so it was not until he was on the bus that he saw the taller of the women had turned back and was now disappearing across the square. He frowned. Hadn’t he seen her somewhere before?

‘Have you ever had members of the press coming on board?’ Lorimer murmured to the minister.

Allan’s bushy eyebrows shot up in surprise. ‘That lady who was with Doreen…?’

Lorimer nodded. ‘I think so,’ he said slowly. ‘But it seems she’s changed her mind.’

‘Well.’ The minister puffed out his cheeks. ‘Perhaps she only wants to see us from the outside,’ he said.

‘Do you think she might be a friend of Doreen’s?’

‘Could be,’ Allan replied doubtfully. ‘I haven’t seen her here before,’ he added, peering into the blackness. ‘But I do worry about certain of the newspapers, you know, Lorimer. Always looking for a negative, sensational sort of story to print. Stuff that doesn’t do us any good at all.’

‘Want me to have a quiet word if she attends any of my press conferences again?’

‘Would you, Lorimer? Thanks, that is kind of you.’ Allan beamed once again as though his world had tilted back on course.

The woman called Doreen had walked right up to the front of the lower deck and was sitting next to a display of leaflets. She had begun to pick out one or two and was examining them as Lorimer approached.

‘May I?’ he said, taking a seat next to her across the aisle. The woman jumped and gasped.

‘God!’ she exclaimed. ‘You gied us a fright!’

Lorimer began to smile an apology; the woman’s face had turned such a sickly white.

‘We haven’t met before,’ he said, putting out a tentative hand.

‘I’m Detective Superintendent Lorimer.’

Doreen’s face changed so immediately that the detective superintendent wondered if his initial impression of shocked disbelief had been wrong. Just a trick of the light, perhaps?

‘Aye,’ she replied shortly, not reaching over to shake the policeman’s hand. The street woman’s dark eyes narrowed, however, as she scowled at Lorimer.

‘You came with another lady tonight, but she seemed to have changed her mind about getting on the bus,’ Lorimer began.

‘Naw, I dinna think so,’ Doreen said sourly.

‘Isn’t she a journalist, then?’ Lorimer persisted.

‘Don’t know whit ye’re on aboot,’ Doreen said sharply. Lorimer nodded. The woman’s riposte had been a touch too acerbic. There was something she didn’t want the policeman to know and he was certain it had to do with the woman who had disappeared across George Square.

‘I think she’s writing about the death of the deputy first minister,’ he ventured.

The street woman turned on him, eyes flashing.

‘She’s writing about us,’ Doreen broke in, ‘no’ that it’s ony o’ your business.’

‘Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong,’ Lorimer replied. ‘You ladies are very much my business, I’m afraid.’ And before Doreen’s scowl could deepen any further he went on. ‘I’m here concerning the death of TraceyAnne Geddes. I hoped that talking to some of the ladies who knew her might help,’ he said.

‘Oh. Well, in that case … ’ Doreen replied, her mouth open in surprise. ‘See, I thought …’ The woman bit her lip suddenly.

‘You thought I was working on the Pattison case,’ Lorimer finished for her. ‘And of course I am. But the other case is still something I take an interest in,’ he said blandly.

‘Tracey-Anne didnae deserve tae die like that. Some fu— some animal did that tae her!’ Doreen exclaimed, tempering her language as she remembered who she was talking to.

‘I know,’ Lorimer said gently. ‘But there is something I wanted to ask, Doreen. Something I’ll be asking all the girls tonight,’ he added, turning slightly as voices behind them showed that more passengers were now boarding the bus. ‘Did you ever see a man in a white sports car, a Mercedes, kerb crawling around the drag, looking for custom?’

‘Well maybe I did and maybe I didnae,’ Doreen said slyly. ‘Not always easy to make out whit types o’ car the punters are in. And ah’m not always quite masel, know whit ah mean,’ she shrugged.

‘Can I trust you to keep all of this completely confidential?’ he asked.

The woman nodded, her earrings jangling softly as she looked at him.

‘Anythin’ in it fur me?’ she asked, then, licking her lips mendaciously.

‘Possibly,’ he replied, his answer deliberately non-committal. ‘And I’d be grateful if you didn’t talk to anyone from the newspapers, okay?’

‘Aye, fair ’nuff,’ Doreen agreed.

Lorimer gave a small sigh of relief. There was so much to think about and sudden interference from the press was something he could well do without. He was taking a risk in talking to the street women too, though. They might well sell a story about a policeman who asked them questions relating to the death of the deputy first minister of Scotland, even if those questions were couched solely in references to the white cars.

As he moved away, Lorimer recalled what Solly had told him about the two girls from the sauna. Miriam and Jenny had frequented the Big Blue Bus, hadn’t they? He turned back again for a moment.

‘Do you know a place called Andie’s Sauna?’ he asked.

Doreen shifted uneasily in her seat. ‘Whit’s that tae youse?’ she muttered.

‘Two young women who worked there ended up dead,’ Lorimer said softly. ‘And we’re investigating all the places they worked prior to that.’

‘Ah’m in Andie’s noo,’ Doreen told him. ‘An’ I ken who ye mean. Thon posh lassie, Miriam and wee Jenny Haslet, in’t it?’

Lorimer nodded. ‘Jenny came here and was given help,’ he said, nodding towards the rack of leaflets. ‘And that’s something Strathclyde Police want as well. Folk like my colleague, Helen James, believe that there should be no women out on the streets endangering their lives.’

‘Ye ken there’s two o’ them? No’ jist the wan in Govan where ah work,’ Doreen told him. ‘They’ve got wan ower in Partick an a’.’

Lorimer nodded. Places like that were never listed in any telephone directory but sometimes business cards would be stuck to the insides of telephone boxes, in toilets or on the walls of the underground railway. Solly had visited the one in Govan but he had not given the policeman any new information about that. Perhaps he could see if his friend would take time to explore this further.

‘Thanks, Doreen. Nice to talk to you,’ he added, nodding politely as he got up to leave. The bus had started up and was now lumbering around a corner of the square so it was time to sit with the other ladies of the night and see what they could offer in the way of information.

As he held on to the back of a seat to steady himself, Lorimer glanced behind him. Doreen Gallagher looked away swiftly, but not before he had seen an expression cross her face: one that he recognised as sheer relief.


The rest of the night passed calmly enough, the street women proving to be every bit as wary as Lorimer had expected, but his polite and quiet manner did coax a few of them into sharing some of their stories with him. So it was that he heard tales of juvenile rape and incest, stuff that was shrugged off by some of them as though these things were ordinary life experiences. What did amaze the policeman was the women’s resilience in the face of so much hardship and squalor. Early death was taken for granted, stories of girls coming out of prison to meet with their drug dealers and overdosing on the way home were not unknown. One other thing he had learned was that the Revd Richard Allan ran a centre for women up in Stirlingshire, near the village of Arnprior. It was a place of hope, the man had told him, the converted farm catering for women who had lost their way, often through drugs. Fortunately the charities and trusts that funded it had not been hit during the recession and they could continue their good work.

It was a chastened Lorimer who reached home as the birds began the dawn chorus, grateful that fate had dealt him such a good hand. There but for the grace of God… Richard Allan had murmured. And it was true. He looked at the front of his home with a sudden spurt of joy. They had this lovely house, he and his darling Maggie who was asleep upstairs. He had a job that he loved and good health to enjoy so much of life. As he stood there on his doorstep a blackbird suddenly opened its throat and filled the cold morning air with liquid notes that thrilled him through and through. He inhaled deeply then sighed, his breath making a small white cloud. Life, in all its vagaries, could still have moments of glory, he thought, turning the key in the lock and pushing open the door to his home.